


spark & burn

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Established Relationship, M/M, Protective Stiles, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 08:53:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14421879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Stiles is brilliant and beautiful and cruel and vicious and Peter thinks he wouldn’t love him, if he were anything else.





	spark & burn

Stiles is….

Stiles is beauty, chaos wrapped in pale skin and wicked grins, and Peter adores him. 

He never expected Stiles. He’d had his great loves--Chris Argent, who he loved fiercely and hated even more, who broke his heart and burned his world to the ground when he married Victoria. 

And Lily, the laughing beta from the Astaroi Pack who didn’t mind his moods and schemes, who coaxed him to smile, who was tricky and devious and gorgeous when she swayed on the steps of the Hale house, pregnant and furious and radiant. Lily, died in his arms and flames, when the Argents came back and burned his family around him. 

He  _ had _ loved. 

Fiercely and deeply and tragically. 

But neither Chris nor Lily prepared him for Stiles. 

Stiles who was a wild flurry of flailing limbs and plush pink lips, Stiles who the laughing jokester, the loud mouth, the one with a sharp tongue and sharper wit and eyes daring you to fight with him. 

Stiles, who occasionally, found Peter and settled in silence.

He was baffling and infuriating in turns and always,  _ always _ fascinating. 

~*~

He offered Stiles the bite, just the once, and Stiles stared, his heart pounding, a flickering flame, and said no. Said,  _ I don’t want it.  _

It was a lie, but Peter heard the words he didn’t say.  _ I don’t want  _ you.

He dropped the boy’s wrist and didn’t ask again. 

~*~ 

The first time he slept with Stiles, they were tired. Stiles had collapsed in his bed after hours of research that did nothing, and sleepily tugged at Peter until the older man relented, changed into low slung soft sleep pants, and curled around Stiles. 

The boy twisted in his arms and stared at him, sleep soft and slow, and he kissed Peter, drew him close and kissed him, almost chaste. 

Peter’s arms tightened around him and Stiles hummed, a pretty, pleased noise, and licked into Peter’s mouth, kissed him lazily, until Peter tugged him over until Stiles sprawled over him, warm skin and slow, sensuous rolls of his hips. 

They fuck like that, just like that, slow and lazy, almost dreamlike, and Stiles moves like sticky syrup, quiet hitching groans, tiny broken moans, gasps of  _ Peter _ and  _ fuck _ and  _ please. _

Until he came, a hot spill over Peter’s belly, and Peter bit him, and shuddered through his release, filling Stiles up, skin prickling with sweat and want. 

After, he wished he could have this, always.  

~*~ 

Stiles is cold, except when he does magic and then he burns hot, hot like fire, and Peter thinks it must be the spark in him. 

He thinks it should worry him--he’s burned, so many times. 

He holds this brilliant boy and if it burns, he dismisses it. 

~*~ 

Stiles killed him, once. 

It feels like a lifetime ago, like that trauma happened to someone else. Someone broken and insane. 

Stiles doesn’t apologize for it, anymore than Peter apologizes for the killing spree that made it necessary. 

Sometimes, when they’re fighting, Stiles will look at him and Peter will see it, that fierce determination that he saw in the boy before he went up in flames. 

Sometimes, he can feel the heat of that fire, the pain of it in the cascade of words, the sharp jagged insults, carefully chosen and delivered. 

Stiles is brilliant and beautiful and cruel and vicious and Peter thinks he wouldn’t love him, if he were anything else. 

~*~ 

The pack didn't like him. He knows it and sometimes it is a hot burning pressure in his chest, the want for more, for pack. 

But he is resigned to it, familiar even with their caustic disregard and dismissal. It stopped stinging after a while. 

But sometimes. When they grew especially cruel, Stiles’ face will grow stormy and he’ll snap and snarl. He burns like the fiercest flame, when he’s defending what is his and Peter doesn’t always know  _ how _ or even  _ why _ but he does know, deep and true and unshakable--he belongs, body and soul, to Stiles. 

~*~ 

“You’re doing it wrong,” Peter says, and he presses against the him, a warm line against his back that makes Stiles tense before he goes lax and his scent goes sweet. 

“It’s going in stew, Peter, there isn’t a wrong way to cut it.” 

Peter tuts and takes the knife, slicing and dicing easily while Stiles lifts one hand to play in his hair. “Savage,” Peter murmurs and Stiles nods, rolls his hips once, not quite an invitation. 

“You like me that way.” 

He does. More than is safe, he likes Stiles like this, lax and buttery soft, warm in his den and his clothes and his bed. 

He likes cooking with Stiles, likes knowing he can provide and be provided for, and that Stiles doesn’t mind when Peter scents his neck. 

He likes dozing, head tipped back, Stiles sprawled at his feet, basking in safety. 

He likes sleeping in his bed, held by human arms and love, a willing captive because gods and moon, he has never loved anything as much as he loves this incandescent boy. 

~*~ 

They fight together, and it’s like touching a match to a trail of gasoline, impossibly fast liquid devastation, searing heat and fury. Stiles fought like a cornered wolf, and always, always, kept Peter at his back, braced protective and defensive. Peter snarled and let the boy fight, because they did that best, together, like so many other things in their life.

The pack argued, said he was too weak, to human, to breakable. 

Peter knew what they didn’t, what they couldn’t see or refused to see--Stiles was fire forged steel wrapped in human flesh, and he wouldn’t--couldn’t break. 

Peter  _ adored _ him for it. 

~*~ 

The thing with Stiles sometimes surprises him, still. It never made sense. 

Except. It does. He is bright fury, fragile stubborn defiance, and when they clash--they clash so often--sparks flew. 

They were alone together often. Derek didn’t always trust Peter, but he trusted him to keep Stiles safe. 

It isn’t something that happens quick and burn out fast. It’s dinners over research, it’s arguing with each other and for each other, and trusting each other to do what no one else in their painfully  _ good _ pack could do. It lt’s late night confessions and drinking and old movies and watching baseball games with his father, who watches them, his gaze sharp and knowing and confused and somehow, accepting. 

It’s whispering to each other during pack movie nights and anticipating each other’s needs, and showing up on days that are bad, because they are  _ bad. _

It’s a slow thing. Like holding a candle and not realizing it’s burning you until it’s too late to stop. 

He’s glad. He thinks, if either of them knew what was happening, they would have let go, let the candle spill between them and gutter out, and he would never have felt the sweet heat of loving him. 

~*~ 

He stretches out below Peter, cool skin turned hot, prickling with sweat as Peter works him open and Stiles whimpers, whines through the press and begs for more. 

He’s pale flickering starlight, the cold fire of the night that burns too hot here, and he’s Peter’s, he’s  _ Peter’s, _ he gasps it when Peter pushes slowly in, babbles it when he thrusts hard against his prostate, whines it when Peter bites at his shoulder. 

He begs so pretty and takes it so well, when Peter fucks him, long slow thrusts that make his breath catch and his hips press back. 

But it’s nothing, nothing at all to when Peter rolls them, let’s Stiles ride him, his eyes fluttering shut and his hips jerking as he  _ takes _ what he wants, what he needs. 

He’s a white hot vise around him when he chokes out Peter’s name and comes, as Peter groans and thrusts deeper, knotting him and dragging him down, licking the whimpers and breathless  _ please _ out of his boy’s mouth. 

He’s a banked fire, slumped, sated, sleepy, murmuring, “Love you, creeperwolf.” 

~*~ 

Sometimes, he watches Stiles sleeping. 

It’s the only time he’s still, the only time he’s quiet, and he’s lovely, always, but lying naked in Peter’s beds, moon gilded and love bruised--he’s perfect. 

Peter wants to keep him, always, protect him, forever. He feels like a dragon guarding his horde, and his isn’t gold, it’s silver heat and burning kisses. 

~*~

Stiles is heat. 

He is a spark, magic waiting to burn, and Peter thinks, sometimes, Stiles will burn him to the ground. 

He thinks of all the times he’s burned, before--the fire, and the years in the hospital, trapped there, the fire Stiles killed him with, the Wild Hunt’s otherworldly flames. He thinks he’s very familiar with fire, with it’s gentle heat and raging fury and every iteration in between. 

Or maybe he’s wrong. 

But he sees his ring on Stiles’ finger, glowing in the candle light, and thinks--if Stiles is a Spark, and burns him to the ground--

It will have been worth it. 

Until then, he basks in his boy’s glorious heat. 


End file.
